Compact with the Devil: A Novel (28 page)

“Your what?” asked Nikki, distracted from her surveillance.

“My jumper,” he repeated, flapping his oatmeal-colored sweater to create a breeze while Nikki continued to stare blankly.
“Why, what do you call it?” he asked, still flapping the sweater—it was of the heavy, woolen variety and looked handmade.

“A sweater,” she replied. There was something familiar about the sweater, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

“Well, yeah, it’s that too. It’s not that funny,” he said when Nikki laughed.

“A jumper is like a pinafore,” said Nikki. “Something schoolgirls wear.”

“Hmm,” Kit said, looking down, as if trying to picture himself in a pinafore. “Kinky, but I think I could pull it off.” And he posed, strutting in his imaginary pinafore. Nikki laughed.

“I like making you laugh,” he said, dropping the pose.

“You don’t have to, though. You know that, right?” she asked, frowning. “You don’t have to entertain me.”

“You have a good laugh. I like to hear it.”

“But you don’t have to. I mean I laugh because you’re funny, not because …”

“Not because I’m paying you?” he said shrewdly.

“Well, you’re not actually paying me for anything.”

“Well, I bloody well should be. Nobody does makeup for the entire band for free. If you’re not getting paid, you should really have a talk with Brandt.”

“No. Well, yeah, I am, but I mean it’s not my normal job; I work for Carrie Mae. So I’m here because I want to be, is all I’m trying to say.” Liquor was making Nikki’s tongue stumble over itself.

“That’s funny, I thought I had to talk you into letting me tag along.”

“I think I may have been slightly mistaken about not letting you come along today. I had a good time.”

“So that would make me, what? Right? Oh, yes, I think so.” He threw his hands up in a rugby referee’s signal for a goal.

“A girl can make mistakes,” said Nikki, laughing.

“Can I be one?”

“You wouldn’t be my worst one ever,” she answered truthfully.

“Hell, I could be your best mistake ever,” he said, and leaned in to kiss her. Their lips brushed, a kiss that was soft and firm at the same time and might have gone farther if it hadn’t been for the bullets flying past them.

Nikki tackled Kit into the subway well. Above them on the platform, two ski-mask-wearing men ran toward them, firing pistols. Huddled under the meager shelter provided by the lip of the platform, Nikki tried to force her brain into a plan.

One of the men jumped down, nearly on top of them, and Nikki went from planning to reacting. She threw Kit’s windbreaker in the man’s face, shoved Kit to the left, and dove right as the man fired through the fabric. Popping upright, she unbuckled her Carrie Mae belt and yanked it through the belt loops. The coiled steel slid through the loops with ease and straightened with a snap on the gunman’s arm as he turned to aim at Kit. Whipping it around, she snared the foot of the second gunman, who was still above them on the platform. The end of the belt pulled him off his feet. Bullets sprayed in an arc at the ceiling as he went down. Swinging the belt overhead, she brought it slapping down on his wrist, sending the gun skittering away from both of them. The first man came back at her, but Kit surprised him with a diving tackle.

“Kit!” she yelled, grabbing him under the armpit and pushing him toward the other side of the platform. Kit took a final stomp at the man’s groin before allowing himself to be dragged away.

Vaulting onto the opposite platform, they sprinted down the hall, heedless of the direction.

“Kit,” gasped Nikki, hearing the sound of a train arriving.

“Which way?” he demanded.

“This way, I think,” she said, and ran down the tube in time to see a train pull up on their side of the platform. They dashed down the ramp and hurtled into the train car. Throwing Kit down into a seat compartment, she followed suit.

Then the train didn’t move. And didn’t move. Nikki wrapped her belt around one fist and concentrated on willing the train to move. The door slid shut with agonizing slowness, and Nikki breathed a sigh of relief as the train pulled away from the platform.

“Did we lose them?” asked Kit, gophering up to look around.

“Wait till we clear the station,” she growled, yanking him back down.

The train chugged into the tunnel, the compartment lights flickering a little as the train picked up speed.

“Who were those guys?” asked Kit, sitting up in the seat.

“I don’t know,” said Nikki, sitting opposite him.

The train swayed back and forth. Nikki could see through the glass of the connecting door into the next compartment and, when the cars were aligned, into the one beyond that.

“I … wow.” He ran a hand up into his hair. Then he shook himself all over like a dog getting out of a bath. “I can’t believe they actually shot at us.”

“Yeah,” said Nikki, thinking that there hadn’t been much
us
. Mostly they’d been aiming at Kit.

“I … wow,” he repeated. His fingers were drumming rapidly on his knees.

They rode in silence. The train slid into a stop and Nikki considered getting off, but a glance out the window at the treacherously empty platform changed her mind. She decided to wait a few stops, checking the names against her mental map of Paris—they were heading north. Whoever was after them would have to guess which stop they would get off at, and she wanted as much distance from their pursuers as possible.

“Look, Kit,” said Nikki, determined to set a few ground rules, “next time something like this happens, just run, OK?”

“What do you mean, run? And what do you mean next time?”

“If you get a chance, run. Don’t come back and try to help. I mean, I appreciate it, but don’t worry about me, just get out. Do you understand?”

“No, I don’t. Those guys had guns. Am I just supposed to leave you there? No way. Besides, we agreed we were partners. Can’t leave my partner behind.”

“I like partners, but honestly, Kit, just let me worry about my own skin, OK?”

“No,” he said, smiling cheerfully around his stubbornness. “But don’t let’s argue. With any luck, it’s not an issue that will come up again.”

“You’re going to give me a heart attack,” muttered Nikki. Hadn’t Z’ev said those same words to her not so very long ago?

“Let me know when your left arm starts tingling,” replied Kit unrepentantly.

“Mmm,” murmured Nikki, avoiding further argument and trying not to think of a similar argument with Z’ev. That was totally different, right?

“Do we even know where we are?” Kit asked. He got up to
stare at the Metro map above the doors. “I think we’re on the four,” he said, swaying slightly with the train. “But I don’t know which way we’re going. I should have looked at the sign on the last stop. It’s either toward Gare du Nord or Montparnasse.”

Nikki winced over his pronunciation of Montparnasse; he put the “T” in. She looked up, meaning to correct him, and glanced out the back window as the train jogged the cars into an unprecedented straight line.

“Kit, get down!” she commanded.

“What?” he said, looking around but not moving.

“They’re on the train,” she hissed, hauling him down onto the floor.

“Where?” he asked, trying to stick his head up and look around.

“About four cars back,” she said, maintaining a firm grip on his collar. “And heading our way.”

“Did they see us?”

“Don’t know,” Nikki answered tersely. “We’ll get off at the next stop.”

“Do we know what the next stop is?”

“Gare du Nord,” answered Nikki, shoving him to the front of the car.

The train slid into Gare du Nord, and even at this hour the international train station was liberally populated. Nikki held Kit tight, waiting to get off the train until it was almost chugging away from the platform. The two men entered their compartment, and Nikki and Kit dashed through the doors just as they slid closed.

“Up the escalator,” Nikki yelled to Kit, who was leading. They ran up the moving stairs, jostling late-night travelers and arriving on the main level out of breath and disoriented.

“Did we leave them on the train?” he demanded, looking down the escalator.

“I doubt it,” answered Nikki, leading them past the lines of trains. The cold night air circulated through the enormous vaulted space, hinting at snow. “All right, here’s what we’re going to do: we’re going to find the nearest gendarme, tell them you’re an international rock star and you need protection from some crazed psycho in the subway.”

“Um … Can we not?”

“People are shooting at you, Kit.”

“And I’d rather not have that on the front page of the
Star
.”

“You’d rather have ‘Kit Masters Dies in Mysterious Metro Shooting’?”

“Can’t we just get a cab and go back to the hotel?”

Nikki looked to the exit and saw a black-clad man standing dead center, talking on a cell phone; his head swiveled back and forth as if searching for something.

“I don’t think so,” said Nikki, tugging Kit away.

“What’d these guys do?” whined Kit as they hid behind a reader board of train times. “Get a special at the all-black clothing store?”

A train arrived with a screeching of brakes and disgorged a flock of weary-looking passengers. Ducking behind a tall man with a red beard, Kit and Nikki walked toward the exit.

“I’m just a tourist, nothing special about me; I’m just walking here,” muttered Kit as they walked, drawing strange looks from the train passengers.

The crowd passed through the entryway, past the man in black, and began to descend the shallow steps toward the street. They were nearly away when they heard a shout from behind them.

“Don’t look back,” commanded Nikki, “just keep walking.” They picked up speed, trying for the title of Most Casual Hundred-Yard Dashers.

“Hey,” called someone from behind them, and Nikki whirled around at the sound of running feet. A girl of about sixteen was running straight toward them, her friend trailing a bit behind.

“Hey, you’re Kit Masters, aren’t you? You are, aren’t you? Oh my God! I can’t believe it’s Kit Masters!” She jumped up and down excitedly, clapping her hands. Behind her Nikki could see three men in black converging on them. Apparently, they hadn’t left the two on the train after all.

“Yes, he is. Do you want his autograph?” Nikki asked. Kit’s expression managed to be both disgusted and amazed at the same time.

“Oh my God! That would be brilliant! Oh wait! Wait. I have my camera.” The girl searched frantically through her bag. “Liz,” she said, turning to her friend who’d just arrived, toting a backpack and looking slightly out of breath. “Do you have my camera?” Liz was staring at Kit openmouthed. “Camera, Liz?” Liz closed her mouth and shook her head, then, jerking one arm out straight, she pointed toward the street. “My boyfriend has my camera. I mean, he’s not really my boyfriend, we can see other people,” said the girl fanatically.

The men in black were within twenty feet now, hanging back, waiting for the teenagers to leave; the two from the train had their ski masks rolled up on their heads.

“That’s OK!” said Nikki genially. “We’ll go over there.” She could hear Kit’s teeth grinding.

They all followed the friend’s signpost finger toward where two motorcycles were parked curbside with two glowering young men.

“Brandon!” screeched the girl, running ahead, leaving them with the uncomfortably smiling Liz. “Brandon, get out my camera! It’s Kit Masters.”

Brandon’s dour expression didn’t change. But Liz’s young man stepped forward eagerly.

“Kit Masters! Wow! I have all your albums. I even have the @last albums. I must have listened to ‘Sub-Zero Fire’ about fifty billion times. This is so brilliant!” The kid pumped Kit’s hand up and down.

“Thanks,” said Kit with an awkward smile.

“And your new album,
Devil’s Kit
? Awesome!”

“That’s Dean,” said the first girl dismissively. “He’s Liz’s SO. I’m Sara and this is Brandon.” Brandon gave a careless wave as if Kit was the last thing of importance. Brandon was clearly far too mature to be impressed by a mere rock star.

“Great,” said Kit.

Nikki stole a quick glance behind them. The three men had fanned out, covering them from all angles.

“That’s a nice bike,” said Nikki, looking speculatively at Brandon’s motorcycle. It was a small, smooth check mark of liquid orange over a V-twin engine. The passenger seat was an afterthought, the fairing nonexistent, and the windshield tiny.

“It’s a Buell,” said Brandon proudly, his face lighting up.

“Yeah, the Harley-Davidson sport bike, right?”

“Yeah!” said Brandon, falling in love.

“Vance and Hines after-market muffler. You wrapped the pipes.”

“I think it looks cool.” Then he said with more honesty, “Plus, I tipped it and scuffed the pipes.” Nikki nodded. The wrapping gave the bike a slightly
Mad Max
effect; it wasn’t a bad solution. But her attention was on the two men she could see in the bike’s rearview mirrors. She flicked her glance upward and spotted the third and largest edging closer to their position.

“How’s it run? I heard the Buells tend to be temperamental.”

“No, it runs great. Totally keeps up with Dean-o’s Triumph.” Nikki sized up Dean-o’s black Triumph SLR; it looked a little more passenger-friendly.

“It’s a great bike, really runs good,” said Brandon, putting the key in the ignition, preparing to prove his statement.

“Who cares about motorcycles?” interrupted Sara, pouting. “We’ve got a rock star here! I found my camera.” She snapped a picture to prove it, and everyone blinked in the flash.

“Great,” said Nikki. “What if we get a picture on the bike?”

“Yeah,” said Brandon, perking up, “that would be cool!”

“You can sit on my bike, Kit!” said Dean, chiming in.

“Sure,” said Kit, glancing at Nikki. She jerked her chin in a minute nod, just as the big man in black pushed through Liz and Sara, reaching for Kit. Nikki grabbed the man by his shoulders, yanking him back as he reached for Kit. The man leaned forward, trailing his arms, and dove out of Nikki’s grasp, leaving her holding his coat. Liz and Sara screamed. Kit turned around and swung a punch into the man’s gut; the big guy ate it like a hamburger and bounced it back like a burp. Kit recoiled, shaking his hand. From behind, Nikki tossed the coat over his head and hauled down. His hands scrabbled at his coat, trying to scrape it away from his face. Nikki pulled harder; he teetered for a moment, on the edge of falling backward, on the edge of recovery.